Secretary
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: Based on film of same name. Castiel hires habitually self-harming Dean as his legal secretary. The two slowly develop a dom/sub relationship. There's love, there's self hate and there's powerplay. But it's a love story.
1. Chapter 1

_This is one of my favourite movies of all time. I love the way the sub/dom relationship is shown in it, and the tension in both characters. For that reason I hope I've done it justice – some parts are different thanks to my strange little mind. _

Dean left the institution on the day of his brother's wedding.

He'd only been there for six months, but he'd offered no resistance to the regime or the therapy sessions, so they'd decided he wasn't a serious threat to himself. Dean could have told them that – he hadn't meant to cut himself, not that deeply anyway. It was just a slip, even the most practiced person could make a mistake. And, as the ladder of tiny scars up and down his thighs showed, Dean was an expert.

As Sam and Jessica pose for photos down by the pool, pastel pink crepe paper and shrieking bridesmaids everywhere, his supposedly sober father is on his third beer. Dean's had enough.

He opens the door to his old room. They haven't moved anything in the time he's been away. His rock posters and albums are still in place, his shelves of paperbacks, porno's and records are as scruffy and unorganised. His few ornaments, if they can be called that, are coated in a thin layer of dust – the pool balls, beer bottle with glued on wheels and framed pictures of him and Sam at camp and concerts.

It still looks like a teenager's room.

Dean is 23.

Under the bed he finds what he's looking for, a plastic case that contains his bottle of iodine, tiny adhesive bandages, and the straight razor. Of course he's used a lot of things, kitchen knives, tools from Dad's workshop, broken glass, hell, even a belt buckle once. But the razor is an old favourite, the only one he's hung on to. He runs the blade over the sharpening block, then undoes his belt and slides his good formal pants down to his knees. He levels the thin blade against his thigh, between two of the fine white scars that already litter his flesh.

He hates this, hates the guilty burn of anticipation that fills him as he holds the blade. But he needs it too. He can't separate the two feelings and it makes him feel detached and sick at the same time.

The cut is glorious. A smart of pain followed by a welling, buzzing quiet that seduces all his frantic anxiety. He closes his eyes, swallowing nervously. It's been months, so long. He smoothes the blood from the wound, applies the stinging iodine and a Band-Aid. He puts his kit away and goes outside to rejoin the family, feeling steadier and yet fragile.

He hates being home. He loves his Mom, and Sam, and his Dad...but it's the kind of love that cringes in your chest. His parents fight, or Sam does something that reminds Dean that even though he's the eldest he's still going nowhere while Sam takes the world by storm. They make him feel too young, and useless and impotent.

He lies in his childhood bedroom, thumbing his old magazines and listening to LP's over and over. He has no direction, no wants, no needs besides a cutting edge – and even that is only because of where he finds himself, trapped in this house.

His mother tentatively suggests over dinner that he might like to get a job. She also reminds him that 'nice Lisa Braeden" from down the block is still single. His father watches him over his steak and mashed potatoes. Sam and Jessica are still on their honeymoon, the pool house has been redecorated for their return. The house is oddly silent without Sam around, like they're waiting for him before life resumes. Sam the golden boy – apple of Dean's eye.

He looks through the want ads half heartedly. He's never had a job before. Dean scans over management positions and skilled labouring because he isn't qualified. The only skills he has are the ones he acquired in high school. He never went further. Though at the institute they got him to take a course in typing, using the old fashioned typewriters. He has no idea why, something about it improving him later on, giving him better concentration. He puts it on his resume anyway.

One ad catches his eye. Secretary at a legal firm. It's a small firm, just across town and Dean figures he can type and answer the phones. At the moment it's an excuse to leave the house, a way to get his Mom to stop watching him like she's waiting for him to snap. The knives are still locked in a drawer. Nobody trusts him.

His Dad drives him across town in his old car, the impala's rusting away but he doesn't seem to notice. Outside of the building is a sign that reads – 'C. E. Novak Esq.' Underneath is an illuminated plaque 'Secretary wanted'.

While his Dad pulls away, leaving Dean on the sidewalk, he wonders how many secretaries this guy must go through, to need a sign like that. The door is already open a little, so Dean goes in.

The waiting room is large, with a desk at one side that holds a typewriter and a phone. Everything else is a mess of papers and broken glass. A dark haired woman is packing a cardboard box with her things, mascara running from her eyes, there's a severance cheque clamped in her lipsticked mouth. As Dean enters she picks up the box and cringes past him, eyes wide on his for a second, misery evident.

The door bangs behind her.

A hallway goes from the waiting area to the main office, Dean looks down it, then behind him, wondering if he can still leave.

"Come in" Someone shouts from beyond the office door. A deep voice sharp with impatience and authority, it's that which makes Dean stay. Despite the fact that he really wants to flag his Dad down and go home.

Beyond the door is a spacious office with a large desk. The walls and furnishings are dark, almost Victorian, but luxuriant with splashes of red. Behind the desk is an angular man in a black suit, looking down at a page of type with a frown on his face. When he looks up at Dean his blue eyes are intense, riveting. They're the only colour on him, his skin is alarmingly white, his hair and clothing completely black. His eyes light on Dean, his head tilting slightly with curiosity. Dean swallows nervously, he hates being stared at.

Castiel looks at Dean and sees a strong, broad shouldered man. That's important, that he is a man and that he is strong, stronger than Castiel anyway, with obvious muscle on him. It's perfect. He almost sighs in relief. This time, _this time, _he won't allow himself to succumb to his own strange will. Even if he does, this man is strong enough not to let him.

"Hi" Dean says, uncertainly.

"Hi"

"Are you the lawyer?"

"Oh...uh...yes." He's naturally skittish, but it seems to make the other man feel more at ease. He moves further into the room, still timid but otherwise assured. Then he falters, takes in the imposing office and stoic man.

"I'm sorry...I'll just...I'll come back." He turns to the door and Castiel finds his voice, the right one.

"No" he insists. "No, stay."

Dean halts at the door and slowly comes to sit opposite him at the desk.

They look at each other in silence. Castiel looks him over, preparing his questions. There are always questions, he likes to know things about people, about what makes them close up or split wide open. He puts it down to his years as a lawyer.

"Are you married?" Castiel asks, voice still level and hushed.

"No" Dean feels ill at ease, but curious, wanting to please. Castiel finds it endearing and irritating at the same time.

"You live in an apartment?"

"A house."

"Alone?"

"With my parents." Blue eyes bore into his, like they can see his soul.

"Siblings?"

"My brother, Sam." Castiel fiddles with some controls to the side of his desk.

"Have you ever won an award?"

"Yes"

"What was your award for?"

"Typing" Dean's throat is dry. A set of drapes open to his right, revealing an illuminated display of meticulously maintained orchids. Dean looks at them, then back at Castiel who's still watching him intently.

"It...uh, said 'Secretary', out front?"

"It did." Castiel agrees, he glances at the crumpled paper in Dean's hands. "Are those your scores?"

"Oh...yes." Dean hands them over. Castiel looks down at them briefly.

"Dean. Winchester." he murmurs, looking up through half lidded eyes.

"Yes." For some reason his heart is beating too hard against his ribs, under the weight of that gaze. Castiel snatches up the phone and dials with the end of a dart he plucks from the desk, cupping a long fingered hand over the receiver he looks up again.

"Could you get me a cup of coffee...with sugar."

That's how his first day begins, struggling to replace the empty barrel on the water cooler in the kitchenette.

When he returns to Mr. Novak's office he places the mug of coffee on the desk where the other man ignores it completely. Instead he sits on the leather couch across from his work space, beckoning Dean to sit opposite. He does so, still dabbing with a paper towel at the spilled water that soaks his shirt.

"You want to be my secretary?" he asks, gravely.

"Yes"

"You scored higher than anyone I've ever interviewed...you're really over qualified, I think you'd be bored to death."

"I want to be bored." Dean says blankly. Castiel's eyes find his again.

"It's very. Dull. Work." He stresses.

"I like dull work."

Castiel's glare intensifies as he leans forward.

The phone rings. One. Twice. Castiel leans back lazily.

"I'm not here."

It rings again. And again.

Dean realises he's meant to answer it and does so. Castiel walks back to his desk, moving the mug to the opposite side with distaste.

"There is too much sugar in this coffee." He mutters, darkly.

That evening Dean's father collects him from around the corner of the office. He doesn't tell him much about his first day, because nothing's happened, not really. He spoke to Mr. Novak, he got the job, he answered phones all day.

Nothing interesting at all.

The light on the secretary sign flicks off as they drive away.

That evening he practices his new phone manner.

"Hello, you have reached the office of Mr C. E. Novak, please leave a message, and the time you called, and we..." Dean pauses, looking at his reflection. "will get back to you as soon as possible.

A weird thrill goes through him. That day he learnt that the C stands for Castiel.

Castiel Edward Novak.

He spends the next few days filing, typing and sending letters and answering the phones. He actually sees very little of the lawyer, who stays in his office and occasionally comes out to deliver a new string of orders.

On Thursday he brings Novak his usual coffee and an additional box of pastries. He enters the office in time to see Castiel tending his orchids, a long thin metal tool held between his teeth, tiny scissors in his hands. His face is a mask of concentration, but he looks up as Dean enters.

"I brought you these." Dean gestures with the box. Castiel removes the implement from his mouth carefully, setting it to one side.

"I accidently threw out my notes on the Feldman case." He drawls, turning back to his work, "could you..."

"Go through the garbage?" Dean finishes, evenly. Castiel looks slightly surprised, but nods. Dean leaves, quickly circling the building and finding the dumpster out back.

He kicks a leg up to its lip, hauling himself over and going through the plastic sacks inside. Castiel watches from his window, an unseen and unreadable expression on his face as he observes Dean going about the task he set him. He feels his breath come quicker the longer Dean rummages through the trash. He isn't hard, but he feels...fixated, hungry perhaps.

He drops to the ground and begins to execute sit-ups, mechanically, roughly straining the muscles in his back.

After a while Dean finds the discarded papers, he wipes off the smears of garbage liquid and takes them back inside. Castiel is sitting at his desk, not a hair out of place. He briefly acknowledges his presence.

"I found my spare documents" He thrusts a stack of papers towards Dean "copy these and send them out, today." Mutely Dean takes the papers, as he goes to drop the recovered file into the trash he sees the unopened box of pastries already sitting in the wire basket.

Castiel watches him for any reaction. Dean drops the files on top of the other trash and leaves without a sound.

Dean begins to frustrate Castiel in curious ways. When he types for example, his tongue protrudes, rubbing anxiously at the corner of his mouth. He keeps his walkman in his desk, kicks his shoes off when he thinks Castiel is otherwise occupied. Thousands of infractions that tempt retribution.

Castiel says nothing, until Dean sniffs.

He's tidying papers on Castiel's desk when he sniffs, like he does constantly, a nervous tick that irritates him beyond belief.

"Don't. Do. That." He murmurs, leaning over the desk to glare into Dean's uncomprehending face.

"Do what?"

"You're always...snivelling, it's off putting." Castiel shuffles papers like this is the end of it.

"I didn't know...I'm sorry." Dean ducks his head, looking down at Castiel's pale hands as they order files and memos.

"Well...you do." Castiel's voice bites into the curve of his neck, Dean keeps his eyes fixed on his hands. "and...you need to rethink your work clothing, you represent this office, which means you represent me and right now..." Dean feels the pressure of his eyes pass over his body. "you're a disgrace."

"I'll change them." He mutters. Castiel sucks in a barely audible breath, Dean looks up, meeting his eyes.

"That's not all" Castiel's eyes bare a challenge, he's seeing how far he can go, how much Dean will take before he snaps back at him. "That thing you do, when you type."

"Thing...?"

"With your tongue, that has to stop. Your phone manner is appalling, you've yet to organise the files in the back office, you're consistently late responding to my instructions...and take that walkman home; I don't like the idea of you listening to music while you're on my time – I know it's there." Castiel's voice shakes, brows creased with irritation, eyes still watching him, waiting.

"Yes, sir." Their eyes lock for a second.

Dean picks up the files he's been told to copy and leaves. Castiel sits at his desk, felling the blood throb in his temples, the quivering adrenaline high of his own conflict. Eventually he gets up and walks through to the outer office.

What he sees stops him in his tracks.

Dean is sitting at his desk, a plastic box open on its surface. In one hand he holds a straight razor, the other is undoing his belt. Deftly he opens his pants, exposing the top of one thigh, already covered in thin red wounds. He lowers the blade, face blank save for a kind of despairing focus in his eyes. Castiel can't help but suck air in sharply.

Dean's eyes shoot up.

Both men freeze.

Dean looks down, drops the razor into the kit with a clatter, putting the bandages and bottle of iodine on top. He avoids Castiel's eyes the whole time, re-fastening his pants and laying his hands limply on the desk.

"My office. Now." Castiel's throat is dry.

Dean goes back into his office. Castiel joins him a moment later, setting a cup of coffee down in front of him gently. He takes a seat opposite and looks at the top of Dean's downturned head.

"Why do you cut yourself, Dean?" he asks eventually.

"I don't know." He's waiting for the inevitable, the concern, the hospitals, the psychiatrists. Instead Castiel seems to consider him for a moment.

"I think it's because...sometimes you can feel a lot of pain, and perhaps it's easier to cope with that pain when you can watch something heal. That maybe it's a kind of...release, for you."

Dean meets his eyes, surprise evident in their green depths. Castiel's intense eyes stare back, his body upright, his face a mask of calm.

"You aren't going to cut yourself again."

Dean shakes his head, numbly.

"You may leave work early today. You're too old to be driven to and from my office by your father...you should walk home." A small but genuine smile quirks his lips. "You'll enjoy it, I think."

Dean walks home alone through the park, crossing the bridge over the river and then down through the suburban estate until he reaches his parents house. It feels like he has never taken a walk alone before, because he realises, he hasn't.

A few days later Castiel slams a piece of paper onto Dean's desk. On it two spelling errors and a typo are ringed in thick, red, ink.

"This is unacceptable." He grinds out.

"I'm sorry" Dean looks up at him, trying to judge his mood. Since Castiel informed him of his flaws he's been trying to improve, his clothes are neater and he tries not to sniff or let his tongue flick through his lips as he types. Sometimes he gets the feeling it isn't enough.

"There were other's I let go because you were new. This cannot continue." He draws himself up to his full height. "Come in to my office, bring the letter."

Dean walks ahead of him into the back room, uncomfortable to have Castiel looking at him from behind, a view he can't control.

"Put the letter on the desk." He mutters, closing the door with a snick. Dean places the piece of paper on the polished surface.

"Put both your hands on the desk, palms down." His voice is soft, but Dean detects the strength of it, moving slowly to do as instructed, one hand on either side of the letter. He looks down at the page with its red ringed mistakes.

"Read it." Castiel murmurs from behind him.

"Dear Sir, I was fascinated by the literature you sent me regarding..."

Castiel's hand strikes the muscled flesh of his buttock, hard. Dean falters, looking behind him and meeting only steely blue eyes.

"Continue."

"...regarding the environmental laws of the area. Whilst the material..."

He strikes again, Dean shifts forwards from the force of it. A grunt of exertion escaping him.

"...itself was illuminating, I noticed..."

Two blows, harsh and sudden.

"...some discrepancies, and hope you..."

The hand came down again, Dean winces.

"...can correct them in time to submit the information..."

The strikes came evenly now, hard and fast, every few seconds, Dean could barely breathe from the smarting pain.

"...before the case reaches trial...my sec-retary" he falters under a particularly hard slap. "will send you a list of the errors...that I found...sincerely...Mr...C...E...Novak."

The punishment stops abruptly, heaving Dean sagging forwards on sweating palms, backside aching and stinging, finally noticing his own painful arousal. Part of him is confused, shocked...the rest is tight with anticipation.

"Read it again." Castiel's voice is strained.

"Dear Sir" the first blow falls.

They come faster than before, harder, wilder as he reads through the letter not once, but twice more. By the time he finishes he can barely speak, gasping between the words as he rocks back into Castiel's harsh palm. He concludes his reading and the next blow doesn't fall, instead a lean body drops against his back, breathing heavily with exertion. His hand lands on the desk, just touching Dean's own, his breath is hot against his neck.

And then he's gone, rounding the desk to drop into his seat, straightening his tie and plucking up the letter.

"Re-type this, and send it out today." He holds it up to Dean, still bent double over the desk, his blue eyes showing no hint of what has just occurred. He looks as collected as always. Dean takes the letter and goes back to his desk. He's shaken, something inside awake and sharp at this new development.

Castiel sits at his desk, looking at his reddened palm. He clenches it briefly, then goes back to his work.

That night Dean lies in his childhood bed, feeling the bruises blooming across his haunches, clenching the muscles to make them burn. He isn't afraid of Castiel, not really. Though he knows that what happened isn't normal, it doesn't feel illogical.

Castiel returns to his immaculate town house and doesn't sleep. He can still see Dean, bent over his desk, proud back and muscles bunching with the strain of each blow. Such a strong man, head bowed in contrition and acceptance. His mind ticks over, wondering what he could ask of him, how far he could take him.

It's already too late to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

They settle into an uneasy, unspoken routine.

Dean continues to work for Castiel, filing, running errands and typing up his letters. Castiel goes about his work as usual, taking his calls and making anxious little notes on reams of paper. The only change is that sometimes, when Dean makes a typing error, or loses a file – he is reprimanded. He gets used to Castiel bending him over the desk and slapping him, comes to expect it, almost excited at the prospect.

Mr Novak makes other demands of him besides. After the second round of spanking, Dean goes back to his desk, but still feels painfully hard. He ends up in the employee bathroom, arm braced against the wall as he jerks himself fitfully. When he gets back to his station, Castiel is waiting, raising one eyebrow at Dean's flushed face.

"I don't want you to do that anymore." He says quietly, though there's no disgust in his voice.

"What...here?" Castiel's cocked head straightens, his gaze intensifies, his tone light but strong.

"Ever. Not with anyone else either." He drops a folder onto Dean's desk and returns to his office.

Things only escalate as the weeks go by. At breakfast and dinner Dean calls Castiel and receives directions on what to eat, and how much. Strange whims that make no sense to anyone but the two of them. Where dinner consists of one scoop of potatoes, no steak, four peas and as much apple pie as he wants (a la mode – of course). Lunch is decided in person, while Castiel is in the office.

After these calls Dean measures out his food and consumes it slowly, whatever it may be. Castiel replaces the receiver and continues with what he was doing before, but he always thinks of Dean, carefully counting out peas.

He has him kneel on his desk, hands cuffed behind him, for hours, ignoring him the whole time. The strangest thing that they do together barely involves Castiel at all. He places leather cuffs around Dean's wrists, attached to a rod that rests along his shoulders, so his arms remain extended. He goes about his whole day like that, dipping to his knees elegantly to reach papers, carrying correspondence in his mouth. Castiel doesn't acknowledge that anything is different, though there was a moment as he fastened the thing on, when Dean felt his breath, rough and excited against his neck. He likes that, knowing that every movement he makes excites Castiel.

Castiel is the only part of his life in which he knows his place. He follows his instructions and he is rewarded with a brief smile, the warmth of Mr Novak's approval. If he makes a mistake he knows he will be punished correctly, that Castiel will never go too far.

Castiel for his part dwells on a knife edge. Every time he sees Dean he feels the compulsion, the need, to exercise his authority. Dean is tempting, flirting with his retribution whenever he deliberately misspells a word or mishandles an assignment. He knows that what he feels is a sickness, the urge to control and dominate someone whom he has begun to feel...protective of. What more proof does he need that it needs to stop.

He tries, dear god he tries to stop himself. He ignores typos and lost documentation. Dean misremembers three appointments and spills coffee over some important files. Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and practices his sit-ups, push-ups and jogs instead of ordering Dean's lunch.

He senses the larger man's frustration, his want to be controlled that would make it so easy. But he denies himself because he knows it to be the mirror image of his own dysfunction. Dean is sick, his habit of wounding himself proves it. But Castiel cannot believe that, Dean is almost perfect in his eyes, he needs only instruction. And, a traitorous voice whispers, it was you who saved him from his sickness. You prevented him from harming himself. There is no evil in that.

He knows it's a lie, the worst kind, because it's almost true.

He discovers the worm a week after he calls a halt to their bizarre game.

It's dead, dry and folded carefully into a sheet of paper, placed in an envelope and left on his desk. Dean's handwriting is on the envelope. "Castiel" in smooth cursive. He unfolds the letter, spots the worm and freezes.

Dean has upped his game.

Falteringly he opens the top drawer of his desk. One red pen has been left, though he knows he threw them all away. He uncaps it, drawing a ring around the flattened corpse of the worm. Again and again the plush tip of the pen streaks red around the foul creature, circling and circling until the pen dries.

He drops it and presses the button for his intercom.

"Mr. Winchester...can I see you in my office." He grates out.

"Of course." Dean's guileless voice comes back through the speaker.

He enters through the door, coming to a halt in front of Castiel's desk, an infuriating flicker of triumph in his eyes. He has done his best to provoke Castiel into a response.

Castiel considers himself provoked.

He gets up from his chair, circling Dean, who remains impassive, still looking at the seat he's just vacated. He comes to a stop behind the other man.

"Put both your hands on the desk, palms down." He murmurs.

"Yes sir." His voice holds no smugness, no innuendo. Only obedience and acknowledgment. It abates Castiel's anger, but not his excitement. His next request causes a quiver of shock to run down Dean's spine.

"Lower your pants"

"Why?" his uncertainty is genuine, in all this time he's never asked him to strip before.

"I'm not going to fuck you." Castiel enunciates slowly.

Dean undoes his belt and lowers his slacks.

"and your underwear."

He falters again.

"I already told you, I'm. Not. Going. To. Fuck. You." His voice rasps low. Dean lowers his boxers, then lays his hands back on the desk, leaning forwards.

The ghosts of Castiel's fingers skate lightly over the flesh of his bare buttocks. Dean closes his eyes, jaw clenched, waiting.

The expected blow doesn't fall.

For a few long seconds there is only silence, and Castiel's breathing. Then he hears a belt buckle clink, the shuffle of fabric. After that his breaths become quicker, stuttering intakes of air. The dry sound his palm on himself the only other sound.

Dean listens, half disturbed, half elated that he has made Novak lose control.

It's quick and dirty, Castiel comes with a suppressed moan, warm wetness spotting the back of Dean's untucked shirt and the bare skin of his ass. Castiel tidies himself and goes back to his seat. Dean is dazed, hard without knowing why, unsure, afraid almost, now that their pattern is broken.

Castiel's eyes avoid his, searching across the desktop. Finally blue meets green, his gaze is strong but curious, as if he's waiting for Dean to call him out.

"I need you to copy my files on the Towner case and order my lunch..." his voice gains it's comforting commanding note. "you'll have the usual...no lettuce this time."

Dean nods, draws his underwear and pants back up, leaving the office. As he goes about his instructions Castiel watches the closed door, then lets his head sink into his hands.

He has failed.

He is repugnant.

He has to stop.

The next day Dean arrives to find the office changed. The red ringed sheets of typos, which Castiel had directed him to frame and place on the walls of the hallway, are gone, smashed on the floor. His things are gone from the secretaries desk, packed neatly into a cardboard box.

The intercom buzzes.

"Mr Winchester, come in to my office, and bring your typing scores." His voice is placid and deep. Telling him nothing.

With a sinking heart and growing agitation, he goes into Castiel's office.

"Sit down"

Dean sits opposite him at the desk.

"Are you married?"

"...No" he answers slowly, something is very wrong here.

"You live in an apartment?" Castiel continues doggedly.

"...a house."

"Alone?"

"With my parents"

"Siblings?"

"What is this?" Dean interrupts. Castiel doesn't even blink.

"Are those your scores?" Dean hands over the paper. Castiel looks at it briefly, then returns it.

"Mr Winchester, I don't think you're right for this position."

Dean freezes under the clear blue stare.

"Go home Dean...you're fired." His eyes drop to the desk, his hands busy themselves with a pen and his chequebook. "I'll give you a generous severance cheque, on top of the wages I still owe you." He rips off the slip of paper and slides it over the desk. "Please leave, now."

Dean stands, speechless, torn, lost. He takes the slip of paper, looks into Castiel's measured, controlled face and see's nothing there at all.

As he leaves the building the sign, 'Secretary Wanted', blinks on.

Castiel stays in his office, eyes fixed on the spot Dean used to occupy. _It was for the best _he tells himself. _Only ever for the best. _

Dean can't explain his unemployment to his parents, or to Sam. He regresses, spending all his time in his room listening to records or else, floating in the pool with his face under the water. He cashes Castiel's cheque because he can't think of anything else to do with it.

He starts dating Lisa Braeden.

They make out on his bed, blocking out the sounds of his father slurring at his mom downstairs. Lisa is soft and undemanding, laying her hands on him with need but no strength. Dean can't articulate what it is he needs, the firm flash of a slap against his thigh, the control and protective dominion Castiel had over him. He can't ask Lisa to do those things for him, although he knows it would be acceptable if she required them of him. But Dean is a broad shouldered, corn fed, Kansas boy – he isn't supposed to want something like Castiel.

But that's all he does.

He dreams about him, stiff and proper in his black work suits. About his desk, his cuffs and deep, sonorous voice. He doesn't masturbate, even though Castiel probably doesn't care about his order now. He doesn't sleep with Lisa either, though that's mostly because he can't physically bring himself to do it.

Three months pass without Dean hearing or seeing Castiel, though he sits across from his office enough. Borrowing his Dad's car so that he can watch for him. There is a new secretary though, a frail looking blond woman with large nervous eyes.

He buys a book about Sadomasochism, in the hopes that it will explain to him what is happening to his mind and body in Castiel's absence. It's informative, it teaches him why he wants the things he does, that he is a submissive, that Castiel is a dominant.

Nothing tells him he's in love with him. He works that out the hard way.

Dean cracks, knowing that he hasn't thought about Castiel any less while they've been separated. He goes to Castiel's office, but doesn't wait outside. He goes in, ignoring the new secretary and walks straight into Castiel's office, closing the door behind him.

Castiel is on the floor doing crunches. He stops when he notices Dean, freezing and then slowly getting to his feet.

"I love you." Dean says. Castiel's eyes flicker with surprise and something that might be desire.

"I'm sorry...but I don't believe that to be true."

"It is"

"Dean...you can't be here."

"I. Love. You." He says again, dropping into Castiel's chair, because he isn't leaving.

"You don't know me."

"I want to." Dean isn't backing down, not from this. Because he's doing this for Castiel, and not against him. Castiel favours him with a long, almost desperate look.

"We cannot do this, twenty-four hours a day...seven days a week."

"Why not?" It's a challenge, a gesture of surrender. Dean is challenging Castiel to take back his control.

Castiel stares at him, long and hard, swallowing with nerves.

"Put both your feet on the floor. Palms on the desk."

Dean sits up straighter, doing as instructed.

"I missed you." He says, softly. Castiel doesn't flicker, but his voice is less certain when he replies,

"Stay like that until I return."

He leaves the office.

Dean stays as Castiel has positioned him for hours. The office grows dark and his eyes burn with tiredness.

Sam arrives. It takes Dean a few seconds to realise that Castiel must have called him.

"Dean...are you ok?" He edges into the room, watching his brother carefully. He makes an odd picture. A strong man in work boots and plaid, sitting at an ornate desk with his palms spread on its smooth surface.

"Yes."

Sam doesn't seem to believe him.

"Why don't you come home with me, huh? We can talk about it...whatever this is."

"I can't right now." Dean stays put.

"Are you..." Sam sits down gingerly. "are you doing something...sexual, right now?"

Dean's voice is lazy with a sarcastic drawl. "This look sexual to you?"

"I don't know! Dean." Sam shakes his head in confusion. "I don't understand this, at all."

"It's fine Sam. Everything's fine." Dean assures him.

"Then why don't you move your hands?"

"Because I don't want to." Dean smiles, small but unmistakable.

"I have to get back to Mom and Dad...they're waiting in the car." Sam disappears and Dean is alone again.

He realises he's passed a test.

Other people come by, his parents, who seem confused and mortified by his behaviour. Lisa stops by briefly to cry and wonder aloud what she did to make him do this to her. A catholic priest – his mother's idea, tells him that there is actually a history of this amongst saints and pilgrims. Some people think it's a statement, some people think it's a hunger strike. They report on him after the second day, saying he wants peace, justice, freedom or just attention.

He wants Castiel. More than anything, that's who he wants to see.

Castiel watches the news coverage, wrapped in a blanket on the floor beside his bed. He eats very little, his stomach clenching in sympathy as Dean droops low over the desk. Dean is willing to starve for him, to die for him. All he needs from Castiel is for him to have the strength to return to him.

Two things occur to Dean whilst he's hovering in starved delirium.

The first is that love doesn't have to be soft, or gentle. It sounds like a hallmark card for gothic kids, but it's the truth.

The second is that of all the dominants out there – Castiel is his. Castiel has finally found someone to play with, someone who fits him as exactly as possible. In Dean he has found his perfect submissive.

On the third day, Castiel comes for him.

It's night again, Dean's barely awake, throat dry, stomach raw with hunger. He's already pissed himself twice, the thin stream of liquid rolling off of the leather seat beneath him. Castiel notices these things, but they have no effect on him. He cannot possibly be repulsed by an act which shows such devotion and obedience.

He holds a plastic cup of water to Dean's mouth.

It's only then that Dean notices his presence.

"Cas?" he croaks. The first time he's been called anything that isn't 'Sir' or 'Mr Novak'.

He likes it, this epithet that he cannot control the use of.

He lifts Dean gently, supporting him with one arm around his waist. Slowly they make their way to Castiel's car, once inside he gives Dean more water, allowing him to rest his head against Castiel's shoulder throughout the journey.

At his home he's already made the bed, neat and soft with comforters. He strips Dean out of his clothes, soiled as they are, carefully, without a single sexual touch. Helping Dean into the tub he runs the water, warm and up to his neck. With unusual care and delicacy Castiel soaps Dean's skin, washing his hair with his long, strong, fingers. Dean closes his eyes at the sensation, relief and trust implicit in his movements.

Castiel gets him to rise from the draining water, towels him with the same platonic grace he used in undressing him. Only once Dean is safely wrapped in the bed linen does he strip out of his own suit. Naked, lean and dusted with neat, dark hair, he curls himself around Dean's body, tucking his head, with its damply curling hair, under his chin.

Throughout it all he never says a word.

Dean sleeps beside Castiel knowing that their game has changed. It isn't over, it will never be over because the only way to win is to continue. But they play each other, somehow they've done it. Castiel has allowed Dean to force him into admitting his feelings, Dean has provoked Castiel into giving more than he would have alone.

They're complete.


End file.
